Junior Level Champion
by SilverLightning26
Summary: One glimpse on the telly and a spectacular find in a dumpster sets Harry on a totally different path.
1. Part 1

Hi all! I know most of you would prefer a new chapter in MO, but you're getting something new entirely. This is just a little drabble put into my head while reading a different fic and I just had to write it. It's two parts and a short epilogue, but tell me what you think! If enough people like it, I may flesh it out more into a short story.

For now, enjoy, read and review, and I'll hopefully be coming out with a new chapter in MO sometime soon. But I'm still editing, so no promises.

And on with the story!

 **Part 1**

He was five when he decided what he would be. Harry had just come in from working in the backyard and was on his way to the loo to clean up. Uncle Vernon was just sitting down in front of the telly. Harry caught only a glimpse of a male figure wearing a tight, colorful outfit spinning in midair and landing so gracefully on the ice he seemed to be flying. Uncle Vernon muttered something about "queer freaks" and changed the channel to his football game.

But that glimpse enchanted Harry from that moment. He dreamed of being on the ice, spinning and flying and _free_. He thought that if a queer freak could do it, so could Harry, because he, Harry, was also a freak.

From that moment on, Harry looked for every opportunity to learn more about the sport he saw on the telly. The next time Aunt Petunia went to the local library to get a book on gardening, Harry begged to come with her. She gave in to the argument that it was Harry who would be doing the work anyway, so he might as well have some say in the matter. When they got there, little Harry snuck away to the sports section.

He pulled books off the shelf at random, looking for a cover picture that resembled the man on the ice. Finally, he lifted down a book with a picture on the front of a young man with a long white-blonde ponytail, in the middle of that spinning jump. It was about a man named Victor Nikiforov, a figure skater, who had won dozens of medals and competed in hundreds of competitions. Harry's eyes went wide as he flipped past picture after picture of the same man with ribbons and medals and wearing a huge grin. Time after time, Harry saw that the man emphasized hard work, good exercise, and proper nutrition as key to his success.

Then Harry heard his Aunt Petunia calling. He hurriedly put the book back and rushed back to his aunt's side, a new resolution forming.

After that, Harry paid very close attention in his physical education class at his primary, learning what a proper diet was for an athlete, what were good ways to exercise, and how to stretch properly. Harry worked hard in his class, wanting to get stronger so he could one day be the one on the ice. His cousin's game of Harry Hunting gave him plenty of opportunities to run. He started doing push-ups and sit-ups and curls during long hours in the dark in his cupboard. He snuck away to the library multiple times to look up other types of exercise and proper nutrition. When Aunt Petunia had him cook for them, he made sure to pick healthy but still tasty meals and made a little extra for himself.

He found the skates in a dumpster down a back alley just weeks after he turned six. They were scuffed and obviously used, but they were still sturdy. The blades were still in good condition, too. The skates were a little big, but nothing that couldn't be solved by stuffing a bit of newspaper in the toe. Inside one skate, Harry found a crumpled handwritten training plan. Elated, Harry hurried home. He hid the skates in the shed, where no one ever went besides himself. A few days later, when Uncle Vernon ordered Harry to clean out and organize the shed, Harry did so gladly.

A large scrap of wood he balanced over two wooden boxes of old gardening supplies to make a bench. Two buckets filled with bricks and tied to the ends of an old broomstick made a great weight for his arms and legs. He'd seen pictures of a bench press in one of the books. This was as close as he could get. Harry could even decide how much to lift by adding or removing bricks. An old mat meant to protect one's knees from the dirt while gardening was cleaned up and could be rolled out to do push-ups and sit-ups on. All the tools were stacked against one wall, and in a bare corner, his skates had a place of honor. The training plan Harry tacked to the wall with an old nail.

Harry was determined to follow the training menu. It was hard, though, and the first few times he could barely get halfway through it before his body gave out. But he kept at it, steadily doing more and more until finally, by late autumn, Harry could complete it. Not easily, but he could complete it. And every time it got hard, he would look at his skates and remember the glimpse from the telly and the picture on the book and keep going. And he found himself glad, sometimes, of his baggy, oversized clothes—they hid the muscle he was developing.

But Harry had yet to find a place to practice on the ice. In his frequent trips to the library, Harry had all but memorized all the technical details, the names of every jump and turn and twist known to figure skaters, how performances were scored, even specifications on the costumes to make them attractive but also functional. But Harry had never been on the ice. Until one day, Dudley was invited to a birthday party at a park near the edge of town. Harry had to tag along, because the Dursleys couldn't find a babysitter for him.

It wasn't a typical park. It had the playground, and quite a big one that looked like lots of fun. But there were also two football fields, a jogging path through a wooded area and—the best part—a pond! Since it wasn't winter yet, it wasn't frozen. On the day of the birthday party, a few men were even fishing in it. But Harry was sure that once it got cold enough, he'd be able to skate on it. And the best part was, it was only a few miles away, and Harry was already used to running several miles a day—he'd measured, using an old step counter rescued from a rummage sale over the summer.

So, the first day it was truly cold, sometime in late November, Harry rushed to the park as soon as he could get away. There was ice on the pond, but it wasn't nearly thick enough to support even the weight of Harry's slight form. Disappointed, Harry ran around the park a few times, then returned home. But every day after that when it dropped below zero degrees, Harry hurried to the park. In the second week of December, it was finally solid enough to step on.

Barely able to contain his excitement, Harry put on his skates for the only the second time since he'd discovered them. The newspaper did its job and they fit nicely, once he tightened the laces some. Harry's first few steps on the ice were cautious, and he stayed near the edge. It took him several tries to find his balance. But before long, he was skating confident circles around the edge of the pond. A few minutes later, he was zig-zagging across the ice, turning figure-eights, going forward and backward, flying across the ice like he was born on it!

Cheeks flushed with exhilaration and nose pink from the cold, his jacket long abandoned on the shore, Harry stayed until dark, trying all the moves he knew. Some he did easily, some took a few tries. Finally, Harry was brave enough to try a jump. It was a simple, single toe loop. The easiest jump there was, according to the books he'd read. He missed the landing a few times, earning some nice bruises, but finally, just when he was about to give up, he got it! He jumped up into the air, spun once all the way around, then landed with a steady foot and spun neatly to a stop.

After that, Harry went to the pond almost every day. Sometimes he went early in the morning before school, sometimes he went after—after losing Dudley and his friends—and sometimes he went both times. By the end of January, Harry could land all his single jumps and even some doubles. By Valentine's Day, Harry was confident enough in his Lutz to try a triple. His takeoff was flawless, but he didn't spin fast enough to turn three times. He landed after two and a quarter turns, but he landed very badly, spraining his ankle in the process.

By the time his ankle healed, the ice had melted and the weather had warmed. Disappointed, Harry started searching everywhere for somewhere to practice year-round. In the meantime, he continued his exercise. He started to add to the menu he'd found with his skates, and focused on strengthening his core—because, according to his P. E. teacher, a strong core—which led to good form and good posture—was the foundation of almost every sport.

By the end of May, Harry discovered a flier in the local community center for figure skating classes in a neighboring town, free for all ages (as long as one brought their own skates) beginning the second week of summer vacation. He spent the whole month wondering how to pitch it to his aunt and uncle so they'd allow him to go. When final report cards came in (and Harry's grades were naturally much higher than Dudley's), Harry swapped their report cards. Then, stammering and biting his lip and by all appearances embarrassed and ashamed by his poor performance, begged to take the remedial classes in a nearby town, because it was "the least I can do, after you've given me a roof over my head and a place to sleep and I've been such a burden to you."

Uncle Vernon bought it hook, line, and sinker. Aunt Petunia didn't seem to care either way. So, the second week of summer, with his backpack loaded with both school books and his skates, Harry got a ride with Uncle Vernon to the neighboring town's community center on his way to work in the morning. He'd be picked up on Uncle Vernon's way home from work at night.

This worked out nicely for Harry. The classes were only two hours starting at 1 in the afternoon, but there was plenty to keep him busy during the intervening time. He visited the library, explored the town, and accidentally got a few odd jobs and earned a bit of pocket change. This became Harry's habit for the whole summer. During his free time, he'd spend an hour or so studying whatever caught his fancy at the library, and then he'd wander around town on foot looking for odd jobs. He even got an unofficial job as a bagger at the grocery next to the community center.

He saved nearly every penny, knowing that entering competitions would cost money, and eventually he would need a new pair of skates, and those were expensive. But with the little bit he let himself spend, Harry started building up an all-new wardrobe. It started with training gear, because Dudley's castoffs were hardly suitable to working out. Harry found a newer pair of trainers at a rummage sale that fit with a little room to grow, that replaced the pair from Dudley where the soles were held on with duct tape. Then he bought jogging pants and a t-shirt that fit properly. Then a jacket to wear while running. And it continued from there. By the end of the summer, Harry had a suitable wardrobe all his own, including jeans, shirts, and new socks. Most was still secondhand, but it was still in far better condition than Dudley's hand-me-downs, and best of all, it fit!

When summer ended, so did the classes, but Harry didn't tell his relatives. He insisted he still needed the remedial classes, and that they would continue after school. Uncle Vernon bought it easy, and he was so relieved to get Harry off his hands that he even purchased him a bus pass, to get him to and from the neighboring town without having to rely on a ride from his relatives.

All the people in the neighboring town loved Harry. He'd never kept his home life a secret, and he was ever so polite and soft-spoken that they'd all but adopted him. The lady who ran the skating rink was more than happy to let such a dedicated little athlete train (with appropriate supervision) whenever the ice was unoccupied. And the half a dozen-odd skaters actively training for competitions were more than happy to let him observe their practice, and even offered some pointers. One girl, a teenager named Lynnette, helped Harry choreograph his own programs and pick his music, and even helped him fix his form (one of the few things that really couldn't be learned from a book).

By autumn of his third year of primary, Harry was able to land two of his triple jumps and he was looking for competitions to enter. He finally found one, though it was some distance away. Luckily, Harry had his bus pass, and one of the ladies Harry frequently helped to carry her groceries home had offered to make him a costume, from fabric Harry bought himself with the pocket change he was still saving.

Finally, on the third Saturday of October, Harry rose very early in the morning, dressed in one of his new outfits that consisted of jeans, a long-sleeved black t-shirt, and a faded red hoodie, put on his "new" trainers, packed his backpack with his skates, his costume, and some snacks and some change, and jogged to the bus station about a mile away.

The bus arrived right on time and didn't look twice at the eight-year-old boarding on his own. Harry nervously picked a seat in the middle of the bus and didn't speak for fear of throwing up until they arrived at his destination two hours later. Harry disembarked, walked a few blocks to the rink stadium where the competition would be held, then stood in awe at the size of it. It was still early, and rather unpopulated—the competition wouldn't start until midafternoon. So Harry took the opportunity to warm up, on and off the ice, and mentally prepare himself. He was quite smart and well-read for his age, and quite a bit more mature than others his age. But he was still only eight, and this was the first time he'd ever done something this big on his own.

Around noon, other competitors began to arrive. Some were about his age and came with their entire family. Others came with one parent and a coach, and one boy who looked about twelve came alone. Harry grew nervous again, but reminded himself that he'd been practicing and preparing for this for two years now. He'd be damned if he let this opportunity pass him by because he was too nervous. So he squared his shoulders and listened for his name.

"And next we have Harry Evans, age eight, from Little Whinging, Surry."

Harry swallowed and moved out onto the ice. He'd put Evans as his name on the competition entry form, because if he got famous he didn't want the Dursleys to recognize him right away. And certainly, at this moment, they wouldn't. Harry had slicked back his hair with a significant amount of gel, and he stood tall and straight in the middle of the ice while he waited for his music to start. His costume was soft, the same stretchy material as his hoodie, but form-fitting, showing off the wiry muscles he'd worked so hard to build. Bits of fabric hung by his shoulder blades, ready to fan out behind him like wings as soon as he started moving. The whole costume was in shades of grey and black and brown, like the feathers of a bird of prey. He wanted to express how free he felt, how gliding over the ice felt like flying. He hoped he succeeded.

Harry's music started and he moved smoothly into the beginning of his program. Tentative steps across the ice, careful twirls and turns, gradually gaining speed and confidence. Then his first jump—double loop. Perfect landing. A grin spread across Harry's face. This was easy, this was fun. He twirled across the ice, oblivious to the cheers from the crowd. He was back on his pond, soaring over the ice, having the time of his life. Single Lutz into a double Lutz, a layback and a single axle, another double loop. Flying over the ice, spread-eagle around the perimeter, into a sit-spin and back up into a single salchow. One final circle, spinning around and around and around until finally coming to an abrupt stop, arms spread, fabric wings fluttering behind him, cheeks flushed and shoulders heaving, but the biggest smile on his face. Harry didn't realize that while he skated, his costume shimmered like feathers in the sunlight, a faint glow that could not be attributed to the fluorescent lights over the rink.

Deafening applause suddenly filled the stadium. Harry blinked and looked out at the crowd. Many were on their feet, some were screaming his name. Little girls were begging for him to sign their programs. Even some older people were stomping and clapping like crazy. Harry realized he had just skated a perfect program at eight years old, when every competitor before him, ranging from age seven to age ten, had fallen or stumbled at least once. They'd been good. Harry had been impressed, watching from the side. But he'd been better. Then his score came in: first place! Harry was in first place!

He skated off the ice in a daze. He barely remembered the rest of the program. The twelve-year-old who competed after Harry beat him out of first with more double jumps and thus a higher technical score, but Harry still took second. He proudly wore the red ribbon declaring him second place, holding the trophy high while he stood on the platform. Some people took pictures. A _lot_ of pictures. But Harry was unused to the spotlight and so he slipped away as soon as he could. He avoided autographs and journalists and made his way back to the bus station at about 8 o'clock at night, flushed with pleasure at his success and filled with anticipation for the next competition in a few weeks' time.

After that, the rest of the autumn and winter passed in a blur. He took fourth place at his next competition, which was disappointing, but it meant he moved on once more. The next competition was in London, and Lynnette came with him because she was competing the same day! It was a different competition, because of the different age groups and competition levels, but having a friend there made it so much more fun. Lynnette took third place, but Harry took fifth and wasn't able to continue on. It was a bitter disappointment for Harry, who had gotten his hopes up. Lynnette let him know that one loss wasn't the end, and it could simply turn into determination to work harder next time. So Harry worked harder.

A/N: Shout-out to Eilwynn's _Vituperan_ for putting the idea of Harry as a figure skater into my head. Bonus points if you get the name-drop reference :D


	2. Part 2

Junior Level Champion Part 2

Harry's fourth and fifth years at primary passed much the same. The Dursleys did begin to doubt Harry's story about taking remedial classes, but when report cards came around (and Harry swapped them again, because Dudley had abysmal grades and really _ought_ to attend remedial classes), they believed him again. They never seemed to notice the healthy glow Harry had now, or the way he was far happier and focused than he had any right to be, seeing as the Dursleys continued to blame him for everything strange that happened and he was often banished to his cupboard.

And strange things _did_ happen around Harry, he noticed. When Lynnette's pictures from his last competition came in and she showed them to him, he saw the way he seemed to glow. The pond he still practiced on was now _always_ frozen whenever he went, even in defiance of warm weather. His first pair of skates shrunk just slightly his second year having them, just enough to be a perfect fit when they should have still been a size and a half too big. He accidentally turned his teacher's wig blue when she tried to get Harry in trouble for cheating. And Aunt Petunia once tried to cut off all of Harry's hair, save his fringe to cover the scar on his forehead. But Harry had a competition the next day, and after a panicked night of nightmares and worry, it somehow all grew back overnight. And Harry didn't even need to use any gel to get it to behave that day, though the next day it was just as bad as it had always been.

And some people he passed around the neighboring town where he still worked and practiced, as well as at the cities he visited for competitions, would bow to him. And they weren't just any people. They were weirdos, as Uncle Vernon would call them, wearing cloaks and hats and carrying strange sticks.

One day when Harry was ten, he arrived in London a day early for a competition, Lynnette tagging along as his "chaperone" when really she just wanted to cheer him on. They were walking down a main road not too far from the train station, looking for their hotel, when they got separated. Harry wandered into a dinky little pub, hoping to get directions, and it wasn't until the door closed behind him that he realized it was filled with those weirdos. And they were all staring at him. Someone then bumped into him from behind. Harry panicked and ran for the back door. When faced with a dead end of a brick wall, Harry pounded on it frantically, hoping to get away from the weirdos who were all trying to get a look at him or shake his hand. Suddenly the brick wall parted to reveal a passageway, and Harry immediately ran for some distance before he ducked down a narrow side street.

Then he opened his eyes and realized he was completely lost. It looked like he'd stepped back in time. The streets were made of cobblestone, the shop fronts were old, selling things like cauldrons and robes and—broomsticks? He started to panic. What if he never found his way back? What if he missed his competition because he was stuck in this strange world, and got disqualified?

Suddenly a kindly older man with tawny hair shot with grey and a worn cloak knelt in front of him. "Calm, child. No one here will hurt you. Tell me, where are your folks?"

"I-I'm here with a friend, but we got separated and I wandered into a pub and then I found myself here and everyone wanted to shake my hand and I don't know any of them and I don't know where I am and what if I miss my competition?" Harry was rambling.

The older gentleman chuckled kindly. "Then let's get you back, shall we?"

Harry nodded. The man offered a hand, and Harry, despite being ten years old, latched on to it like a lifeline. The man led him through the twisting cobblestone streets.

"If I might ask, what competition are you here for?"

"Figure skating," Harry replied, suddenly shy. What if this man thought he was queer, like Uncle Vernon? He didn't care what his relatives thought of him. But he didn't want others to think he was weird, too.

"Really? That's quite a difficult sport. I'm impressed you're pursuing it so young. Are you any good?"

Harry smiled with a little more confidence. "I've won a dozen ribbons for second, third, and fourth. And I've got three medals for first now. I'm hoping for another one tomorrow." He had a shelf in the Dursley's shed dedicated to all his trophies and medals. It was starting to bend from the weight.

The older man's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "Wow. You must be quite talented."

"Would you like to come watch me?" Harry suddenly asked on impulse. Something about this man seemed familiar and friendly. "It's open to the public at The Grand Ice Stadium, here in London. It starts at 7 pm tomorrow night."

"You know what? I think I will. Now, here we are. The Leaky Cauldron. This here," the man gestured to the cobbled streets and shops, "is Diagon Alley. You must have some talent beyond figure skating to have wondered in here by accident," he added cryptically with a wry smile.

They were back at the pub. "Thank you, Mr.—" Harry trailed off embarrassedly, realizing he didn't even know the man's name.

"Remus Lupin," he supplied with a soft smile. "And which name should I listen for tomorrow?"

Harry smiled suddenly. "Harry Evans," he replied.

The man raised an eyebrow, then smiled.

"Very well. I wish you luck tomorrow, Mr. Evans."

Harry waved. "Thanks again!" he said.

He only made it a few blocks before Lynnette suddenly appeared and grabbed him in a rib-cracking hug.

"My god, I was so worried! You never know what might happen if you get lost in London. I'm so glad you're okay!"

"I'm fine!" Harry protested. "Let go! I can't compete with broken ribs!"

Lynnette suddenly let go, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry. But I found our hotel, and it's getting late. Let's go."

Harry nodded and followed.

The next evening, Harry stood on the edge of the rink, breathing deeply to dispel his latest nerves. He scanned the audience for Lynnette, and grinned when he spotted her. She waved wildly and though he couldn't hear her, he thought she was saying, good luck! Then Harry scanned the crowd for the man from yesterday. It took a minute, but halfway through the first competitor's performance, he finally spotted him in a shadowed corner. The man glanced toward Harry, perhaps feeling his gaze, and smiled encouragingly.

"You're up," came a voice behind Harry. It was Lynnette's mother, who'd agreed to coach him when she had time. She hadn't been able to come the previous day due to prior arrangements, but she was here to support him now. Harry had progressed in leaps and bounds since coming under her tutelage, and he couldn't be happier.

"Yep."

"Good luck!"

Harry nodded, then slipped off his hoodie and handed it to her as they called his name over the speakers. His new and improved costume shimmered in the light as he took to the ice. Woven with silver thread, it was designed to look like fire and lightning. Harry had found inspiration from the scar on his forehead, the only thing he had to remember his parents by other than a recurring nightmare. He'd picked the name Evans by accident—it was simply the last name of one of his school mates. But he'd since learned it was his aunt's—and therefore his mother's—maiden name, and therefore Harry decided to try to honor his parents with his skating. Maybe one day he'd change his competition name back to Potter, but for now he was more than happy as Harry Evans.

His first sequence went wonderfully—high-speed turns and spins with his feet planted firmly on the ice. Then his first jump—triple loop into a double loop. He wavered a bit on the landing but recovered easily and continued into a spread-eagle into a double axel. All his jumps were doubles now, unless they were part of a combination. He'd only just been cleared to use triples in competition—apparently it wasn't good for him to practice them frequently because his body was still growing. But Harry gladly used every triple he knew, alone and in combination, and his step sequence was thrilling. Electric, even. It was like he was born to fly across the ice, drawing and holding every eye in the stadium simply because he was having so much fun.

He landed his last jump—a double salchow followed by a single Lutz—and spun into a stop, his arms high above his head like a lightning rod, directly beneath one of the spotlights. The crowd exploded into cheers. Harry stood, breathing hard, but his cheeks flushed with excitement.

He exited the ice right into another rib-cracking hug from Lynnette's mum, and Lynnette was right behind her. Harry could scarcely breathe, but he couldn't stop grinning. Then they went to the booth to await his scores. And when the came through, he was in first place—by a landslide! It was also a personal best, and that might have been better. Harry was always seeking to beat his own best scores.

He stood at the top of platform once again, proudly wearing a blue ribbon declaring him to be first place. The announcer kept saying things like "prodigy" and "a great talent" and "who knows how far this boy will go?" Harry was just thrilled to be doing what he loved and doing well at it.

Later, when Harry was leaving the changing room with his things, he ran into the man from—Diagon Alley, was it? Remus Lupin? The man was smiling widely, looking years younger, and as Harry grinned back he found himself being swept into a hug.

"Your parents would be so proud," the man murmured as Harry was released. Harry's eyes went wide.

"You knew my parents?"

The man nodded. "I did. They were two of my very best friends. I can tell you they never would have imagined you figure skating, but they would have been so proud of you. You look like you were born to it."

Harry smiled embarrassedly. "I'm not _that_ —"

"Yes, you are," the man cut him off with a smile. "You should be proud of yourself, too. I don't know the first thing about figure skating, and even I can tell that you must have worked unbelievably hard to get this far."

Harry nodded sheepishly. "I suppose."

The two parted a short while later, with a promise to stay in touch. Addresses were exchanged and Harry was looking forward to hearing more about his parents from the man who insisted Harry call him "Uncle Remus." Harry wasn't comfortable with "uncle"—it reminded him of his Uncle Vernon—but he was happy to call him Remus. Remus, in turn, was looking forward to hearing updates on Harry's training and was already planning to be at Harry's next competition.

Harry won his next competition, then took second in the British Isles Grand Prix Men's Junior Level Figure Skating Championship. He didn't realize it, but among figure skaters and fans, he was famous. It was rare for anyone under 13 to compete, even domestically, at a junior level. But here Harry was doing it at 10 and a half.

The next six months Harry spent training. The Dursleys still had no idea Harry was a figure skater, and they were more than happy to have him out of the house as often as he was, so long as chores got done and he attended school. Dudley's baggy hand-me-downs, which Harry wore anytime he was around the Dursleys to avoid raising suspicion, still did a very good job of hiding the toned body Harry had developed, and all his training and his best attempts at a healthy diet had given him a few extra inches on most of his peers. Dudley still tried to bully him, but Harry was now as tall as Dudley was and barely flinched when they managed to catch him, so he and his friends grew bored.

A few weeks before Harry's eleventh birthday, he received a letter from Remus suggesting they meet up in the nearby town Harry was still doing his training at, still using the bus pass Uncle Vernon had bought for him two years previous. Harry gladly agreed. And during that visit, a secret was revealed.

"I'm a—what?"

Remus smiled. "A wizard, Harry. And a very gifted one, if your subtle displays of magic to this point are to be believed."

"What do you mean?"

"You know when you're in competition, and in the pictures your costume seems to glow and become more lifelike?"

"I thought that was just the lighting."

Remus chuckled. "No fluorescent light can make plain cloth look like a wreath of flame. And haven't you noticed other strange things happening around you, things you couldn't explain?"

"Well, my teacher's hair turned blue once. And my hair grew back overnight after nearly being shaved off…" Harry trailed off. "You're right. You're saying that's magic?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Prove it," Harry declared. Remus smiled again. He pulled out a funny stick and murmured something, and then Harry's teacup slowly rose off the plate, hovered a moment, then sank back down to settle back on the saucer with a faint clink. It also grew hot again, as it had grown cold in the long moments of Remus's explanation.

"Wicked," Harry breathed.

"Indeed. I'm afraid to say, in your case, however, that there is more to the story."

"What do you mean?"

"You're not an ordinary wizard, Harry," Remus began with some hesitance. Then, with many false starts and a few suspicious clearings of the throat, Remus wove the tale of an evil wizard called Voldemort who hated anyone not like himself—that is, those without magic, and even those with magic with no magical relatives. Muggleborns, they were called. Then this wizard somehow got wind of a prophecy foretelling his demise and sought to stop it. He believed Harry— _Harry!_ —would somehow be responsible for his destruction, and so he sought to kill him while still an infant. His parents went into hiding to protect him, but they were betrayed and discovered and then murdered before Voldemort turned on baby Harry. Then, inexplicably, when he tried to kill the infant, the spell backfired and Voldemort was destroyed instead. Not completely gone, but no longer with any power.

Harry listened in shocked silence, his tea going cold once more. And when Remus finished, Harry realized there were tears running down his face. He hurriedly wiped them away, but Remus only smiled sadly in understanding.

"At the end, there is some good that comes from this story," Remus said. "The wizarding world has enjoyed nearly ten years of peace, and a marvelous young man has discovered and fostered a talent he never would have been exposed to otherwise. You really are quite the remarkable young man, Harry, but not for what happened that night. You've made something of yourself, and quite a few people now know your name. Some probably even look up to you. And that will follow you to Hogwarts."

Harry nodded, still processing everything Remus had told him. Then he caught on the last word. "Hogwarts?"

"Yes. That's the wizarding school here the British Isles. It's not the only one by far, but it is one of the best. Your parents had your name down since you were born, so you should be getting an invitation soon."

Harry nodded, then suddenly he jerked his head up. "Will I be able to continue skating?" he asked, suddenly worried.

Remus smiled at his urgency. "I daresay you can. There's a lake up at Hogwarts that freezes over every winter, and with magic you could even make your own rink indoors."

"What about competitions?"

"I'm sure the headmaster and your head of house will be happy to give you permission to leave for a weekend to compete."

"Head of house?"

Remus chuckled again. "I keep forgetting you're totally new to all this. At Hogwarts there are four houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. You're sorted into one based on your strongest personality traits, and your house becomes something of your family while at school. Your head of house is a professor chosen from among the staff to watch over that house."

"How much more do I have to learn?" Harry asked. He liked learning, but he dreaded coming into an entirely new culture, it seemed like, so ignorant.

Remus smiled. "How about, as soon as you get your Hogwarts letter, I take you into Diagon Alley and help you get your supplies? There, you can pick out as many books as you want about the wizarding world to help you on your way. But I recommend you start with this one." Remus pulled a book from his bag. " _Hogwarts, A History_. It will give you enough background information to get started. This is my copy from school. I figured you'd have more questions than I could answer, so I came prepared."

Harry accepted the worn tome and traced over the cover. It was clear this particular volume was both well-read and well-loved, from how worn out it was, but it was also in good condition for being—Harry assumed—between fifteen and twenty years old.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, it's getting late and I daresay you've some training to get on with. So I'll see you later."

Harry smiled. "Thank you. See you later."

Harry's birthday came and went, and with it the promised trip to Diagon Alley. Harry returned home with a trunk full of robes and spellbooks and his very own wand—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. It was very warm and friendly in his hand, and Harry was excited to use it. The Dursleys knew about Hogwarts—his letter had come in a very spectacular and memorable fashion that was finally put to rest by Harry insisting that if he replied, even with a refusal, the letters would stop coming. Of course, Harry accepted at once, but the idea of sending Harry to a boarding school sounded better all the time to the Dursleys.

"He's hardly here anyway. May as well be shot of him altogether," Vernon grumbled. "Very well. Send the damn acceptance, but you're getting your own supplies and you're getting yourself there."

Harry bent over backwards in a fake show of gratitude, then started preparing.

The 1st of September came before Harry knew it. He'd said goodbye to all his friends in the neighboring town, assuring Lynnette and her mum and the lady who ran the rink that although he wouldn't be back until summer, he would continue training and competing even while attending his new boarding school.

Remus escorted Harry to the platform to see him off. Harry was very surprised at the buzz his appearance caused. He'd gone incognito during his birthday trip to Diagon Alley, wearing a beanie over his scar and his favorite sweatshirt so he wouldn't stand out as much. Of course, wearing muggle clothes, as they were called, did get him a few odd looks, but he wasn't the only one dressed as such, so it hardly mattered anyway. But on the platform, in his Hogwarts uniform with his hair neatly trimmed, the scar on display for anyone who cared to look twice, everyone seemed to recognize him. But what surprised him most wasn't the wizarding children running up and asking "are you really Harry Potter?" It was the few muggle families and muggleborn or halfblood children running up and asking, "Are you Harry Evans? _The_ Harry Evans?"

Harry gladly said that yes, he was Harry Evans. He was embarrassed when a girl no older than eight thrust a photograph of him taken at his last competition in mid-jump and asked him to sign it. But he did, encouraging the girl to follow her own dreams instead of chasing others as they pursued their own.

The buzz on the train after saying goodbye to Remus was highly amusing to Harry. He overheard countless times the two phrases: "How do you _not_ know Harry Potter? And who the hell is Harry Evans?"—or, his favorite, "How do you _not_ know Harry Evans? Who the hell is Harry Potter?" By the end of the train ride, amusing though the confusion was, Harry decided that from now on, he'd use both names: Harry Evans Potter. Harry James Evans Potter. It had a nice ring to it.


	3. Epilogue

Junior Level Champion: Epilogue

Early one wintry morning, all of Gryffindor tower was fast asleep, except for one boy. Fifteen, lithe and tall, Harry James Evans Potter quietly donned his boots, a thick jumper, and a cloak over sweatpants and a long-sleeved training shirt. He pulled on a pair of gloves and a hat, tossed a pair of ice skates, tied together by the laces, over one shoulder, then crept down to the silent common room and out the portrait hole. Maybe he had been banned from Quidditch (through no real fault of his own), but he could still fly.

Harry walked through the silent early-morning castle and out the front doors, crunched through snow down to the lake, and sat on a large rock to switch boots for ice skates. They were fairly new, just broken in, and Harry couldn't wait to try out the new program he'd created for the next year's competitions. He glided silently out onto the frozen Black Lake, his cloak already cast aside by his boots. He started into a step sequence, slow and casual, warming up.

Then the air filled with faint scrape of ice under his blades as his speed increased and the steps grew more complex. Weaving, sliding, turning so sharply his outstretched fingers brushed the ice. Suddenly, without warning, Harry launched himself into the air, perfectly executing a quadruple loop (his new favorite jump). He landed gracefully, turning easily into his next moves, unaware of an audience gathering at windows all along the south side of the castle.

With his last jump—a triple flip followed by a double toe loop and then another triple loop—Harry glided slowly to a stop, panting but exhilarated. This was the one thing no one could take away from him, no matter how hard they tried.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I've gotten some really good responses from this random little fic, so thank you! I'm toying with the idea of adding a few more scenes, just because I like the idea, too. I'll take suggestions, too. But updating/expanding this fic will NOT be a priority. I'm still working on editing _A Mishap and an Opportunity_ , so that will take first priority. So consider this fic finished, with the potential future expansion.


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